Jo Nesbo - The Redeemer

He parked in a restricted area down one of the small streets around Victoria terrasse, walked past the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and down the broad steps to Ruselokkveien and took a right to the concert hall.

In the large, open square in front of the glass facade people dressed in formal attire were hurrying through the biting sub-zero temperatures. By the entrance stood two broad-shouldered men wearing black coats and earpieces. And there were six further uniformed policemen standing at intervals in front of the building and receiving curious looks from shivering concert-goers unaccustomed to seeing Oslo police with machine guns.

Harry recognised Sivert Falkeid in one of the uniforms and went over to him.

'I didn't know Delta had been drafted in.'

'We haven't been,' Falkeid said. 'I rang the police station and asked if we could be of help. He was your partner, wasn't he?'

Harry nodded, took out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and offered one to Falkeid, who shook his head.

'Jon Karlsen hasn't turned up yet?'

'No,' Falkeid said. 'And when the Prime Minister's here we won't be letting anyone else in the VIP box.' At that moment two black cars swung into the square. 'Speak of the devil.'

Harry watched the Prime Minister emerging and being led briskly inside. As the front door opened Harry caught a glimpse of the reception committee. He saw David Eckhoff with a broad smile and Thea Nilsen with not such a big smile, both wearing Salvation Army uniforms.

Harry lit his cigarette.

'Fuck, it's cold,' Falkeid said. 'I've lost feeling in both legs and half my head.'

I envy you, thought Harry.

With the cigarette half smoked the inspector said aloud: 'He's not coming.'

'Looks like that. We'll have to hope he hasn't already found Karlsen.'

'It's Karlsen I'm talking about. He knows the game's up.'

Falkeid glanced at the tall detective whom, at one time, before the rumours of drinking and unruliness came to his ears, he had considered Delta material. 'What sort of game?' he asked.

'Long story. I'm going in. If Jon Karlsen turns up, arrest him.'

'Karlsen?' Falkeid looked perplexed. 'What about Stankic?'

Harry let go of his cigarette, which fell in the snow at his feet with a hiss.

'Yes,' he drawled, as though to himself. 'What about Stankic?'

He sat in the dark fingering the coat he had spread across his lap. Hushed harp music issued forth from the speakers. Small cones of light from the spotlights in the ceiling swept across the audience, the purpose of which he assumed was to create a quiver of anticipation for what was to take place onstage in a short while.

The rows in front of him began to stir as a group of a dozen or so guests appeared. A few people attempted to get to their feet but after some whispering and mumbling they sat down again. In this country it seemed you didn't show respect for politically elected leaders in that particular way. The company was ushered to seats three rows in front of him, which had been unoccupied for the half-hour he had been sitting and waiting.

He saw a man in a suit with a wire leading to one ear, but no uniformed police. The police presence outside had not given rise to alarm, either. In fact he had been expecting a greater show of force. After all, Martine had told him the Prime Minister would be attending the concert. On the other hand, what difference did the number of police make? He was invisible. Even more invisible than usual. Pleased with himself, he cast his eyes around the auditorium. How many hundreds of men were here in dinner suits? He could already imagine the chaos. And the simple but effective getaway. He had popped in the day before and found the escape route. The last thing he did before entering this evening was to check no one had locked the windows in the Gents. The plain, frosted windows could be pushed outwards and were large enough and low enough for a man to escape onto the ledge outside without any problems. From there it was a jump of three metres onto one of the car roofs in the parking lot. Then on with the coat, into busy Haakon VII's gate and two minutes and forty seconds of rapid walking later he would be on the platform of the National Theatre station where the airport express stopped every twenty minutes. The departure he was aiming for was at 20.19. Before leaving the toilet he had put two urinal blocks in his jacket pocket.

He had had to show his ticket a second time to enter the auditorium. He had shaken his head with a smile when the lady had pointed to his coat and asked him something in Norwegian. She had examined his ticket and shown him to a seat in the VIP box which, in fact, turned out to be four normal rows in the centre of the auditorium cordoned off with red tape for the occasion. Martine had explained where Jon Karlsen and his girlfriend, Thea, would be sitting.

And there they were at last. He glanced at his watch. Six minutes past eight. The concert hall was in semi-darkness and the light on the stage was too strong for him to be able to identify anyone in the delegation, but all of a sudden one of the faces was illuminated by a small spotlight. He caught a brief glimpse of a pained, wan face, but he had no doubt: this was the woman he had seen in the back of the car with Jon Karlsen in Goteborggata.

Ahead of him there seemed to be some confusion regarding seat numbers, but then the situation was resolved and the wall of bodies sank into place. He squeezed the stock of the gun under his coat. There were six bullets in the drum. It was an unfamiliar weapon with a heavier trigger than a pistol, but he had been practising all day and had found the threshold for the trigger to release the bullet.

Then, as if in response to an invisible signal, silence descended on the auditorium.

A man in a uniform appeared, welcomed everyone, he supposed, and said something which made everyone stand up. He followed suit and watched the people around him lower their heads in silence. Someone must have died. Then the man at the front said something and everyone sat down.

And then, at long last, the curtain went up.

Harry was standing in the wings, in the dark, watching the curtain rise. The footlights prevented him from seeing the audience, but he felt its presence, like a large animal breathing.

The conductor raised his baton and the Oslo 3rd Corps Choir burst into the song Harry had heard in the Citadel.

'Let the flag of redemption wave, Onwards now to holy war!'

'Excuse me,' he heard a voice say, turned and saw a young woman wearing glasses and a headset. 'What are you doing here?' she asked.

'Police,' Harry said.

'I'm the stage manager and I must ask you not to stand in the way.'

'I'm looking for Martine Eckhoff,' Harry said. 'I was told she was here.'

'She's there,' the stage manager said, pointing to the choir. Harry located her. She was at the back, on the top step, singing with a serious expression, almost one of suffering. As though it were lost love and not fighting and victory she was singing about.

At her side was Rikard. Who, unlike her, had a beatific smile on his lips. His face looked quite different when he was singing. The harsh, repressed features were gone; there was a radiance in his young eyes as though he meant what he was singing from the bottom of his heart: that they would conquer the world for their God, for the cause of compassion and charity.

Harry noticed, to his surprise, that the melody and the lyrics were having an impact.

After they had finished, they received the applause and came towards the side of the stage. Rikard looked at Harry in astonishment, but said nothing. Martine, on catching sight of him, lowered her eyes and tried to skirt round him. But Harry was quick off the mark and stood in front of her.

'I'll give you a last chance, Martine. Please don't throw it away.'